The words are all the same, it is in how you use them.
Long, drawn-out sighs
Loop our lives together.
Moments of despair,
Thoughts of tired anguish,
Indifference,
Condensing the air between us.
It is in the shadows of a darkened room
That I find the differences
Between who you believe yourself to be,
And who I know I am.
You are the quill pen, green and gray ink,
Who scratches out harsh thoughts
Between your thighs and across my back.
Your nib places your words
Into flesh and composing sweat.
I smudge single syllables
In the language of loins
And sobbing mouths
Across my face for all to see,
Using fingertips
And my own blood.
It is only those repeated moments
Those fleeting seconds
That our far flung sentences find each other
We become the same writer
With different diction
Writing on a snow bank
Waiting for Spring.
—————–
Some other poems you may enjoy:
Extinct
Poems About Poetry
Do Not Speak
Only You Can See Clearly
Warmth of Wonder
